


Star Wars:Underworld

by MsCadyLady



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Anarchy, Coruscant (Star Wars), Crimes & Criminals, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsCadyLady/pseuds/MsCadyLady
Summary: Life on Level 1313 of Coruscant's undercity is rough, full of people doing what it takes to get by. Often, dangerous, illegal or immoral things. Ellaria Kane has spent her entire life down in these dark depths, scrounging what she can, dodging death every day. A mysterious man who calls himself The Seer has changed all that, however slowly. Able to predict future events, he's helped her get through more than one dangerous situation. He's given her hope, and for this, she aids him in collecting Jedi and Sith artifacts. All the while, she's attempting to build a real community, full of those no longer welcome in the new Empire; a community that she hopes will one day be able to leave the undercity, and maybe the planet itself.But, forces are in motion, forces beyond Ellaria's control, that will threaten all she holds dear. The Empire has teeth, and it will take everything Ellaria has to survive.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Durgan’s Cantina pulses with activity. A trandoshan and a duros scramble behind the bar, struggling to keep up with the flood of orders than never seems to end. The night’s band, The Filthy Five, made up of two humans and three bith, is loud enough that most patrons have to shout at each other. The noise would be deafening if Ellaria Kane hadn’t already been a part of it for a few hours. The noise hasn’t abated since she entered the cantina, so her brain has shunted it into the realm of background noise. 

Ellaria sits a table near the center of the cantina, her booted feet up on the table as she leans back in her chair. Her black hair is pulled into corn rows and her dark skin is lit by alternating neon lights of blue, green, and purple. The glass beside her has been filled and emptied a half dozen times, but her mind remains sharp. She’s been careful about her drinking tonight out of necessity. Tonight’s game is more dangerous than usual. 

Across from Ellaria sits Rath Novan, a scruffy bounty hunter and smuggler. He’s wearing a leather jacket and a blaster on his hip. That he’s allowed Ellaria to see it means he’s got more weapons hidden somewhere. Not that he needs them, with the four trandoshan bodyguards he brought with him, each carrying a blaster rifle. Ellaria keeps an eye on the big lizards, the only potential threats to her plan. 

“You know how hard it was to get this?” Rath motions to the small bundle sitting on the table in front of him. 

Ellaria pretends not to look, keeping her gaze loosely fixed on anything but the smuggler. “If it was easy, everyone would do it, Rath.”

“I lost six men!” 

Ellaria allows herself to smile, coyly. “Only six? I thought you said it was hard.”

Rath snarls. “Tell the old man the price just went up.”

Ellaria turns her gaze back to Rath. He wears a smug grin now, and spreads his hands when he sees her looking at him, as if to say, “nothing I can do.” 

“One thousand credits,” he says, “to replace the men I lost.”

Ellaria sits forward, one hand drifting to the blaster on her hip. The trandoshans aim at her. One of them hisses a threat. She ignores them.

“That isn’t how this works, Rath.”

“It does today.” He rests a hand atop the bundle in front of him. “An artifact like this, I can find another buyer as soon as you’re out the door.”

Rath leans back and puts his boots on the table, his hands behind his head. He still wears the smug grin, as if he’s won something. “The Seer can surely come up with an extra thousand credits. . .”

As if on cue, Ellaria’s wrist communicator emits a series of beeps. A smile creeps back onto her face. 

Rath sits up, his eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

“Imperial patrols,” Ellaria says. 

Rath snorts. “So what? They’re always patrolling around here. You afraid of a few cops now?”

Ellaria leans across the table, as close to Rath as she can get. “Let me tell you what’s about to happen. In thirty seconds, a full battalion of Imperial police will charge through those doors. They’re going to arrest everyone in here and kill anyone who resists. You know how they are.” She glances to the door. The timing is going to have to be precise. “So, you have two options. You can give me what I came for at the agreed price and we both walk out of here ahead of the Imperials. Or, you insist on your thousand credits and take your chances with the police.”

Rath’s jaw works as he processes what she’s said. The trandoshans cast nervous glances to the front doors. 

Ellaria smiles. “Time’s up.”

The doors fly open and police pour into the cantina, blasters drawn. Patrons run in every direction. Glasses and bottles fall and shatter. Aliens scream and shout. The cantina becomes absolute chaos. Rath’s trandoshans turn to greet the police, and Ellaria seizes her opening. 

Ellaria shoves her chair backward and kicks the table at an angle. The artifact flips into the air, flying toward her. Rath jumps out of his seat and draws his blaster. The trandoshans open fire on the police. Blaster fire flies past Ellaria’s head, sizzling into the wall behind her. She reaches out and catches the artifact in one gloved hand and runs for the back door. Rath shouts and fires at her. A quarren cries out behind her, but she keeps running. She pauses at the door long enough to offer him a sarcastic salute, then she’s out the door while the cantina descends into death and chaos behind her. 

Outside, Ellaria runs. She weaves her way through alleys, avoiding main thoroughfares where she can. The alleys provide just enough cover from the omnipresent neon lights of Coruscant’s Level 1313 to cloak herself in shadow as she moves. Farther from the cantina, she enters the flow of unceasing traffic along one of the main streets and walks with the busy crowd. The upper levels of Coruscant would mostly be asleep at this hour, but on Level 1313, activity never ceases. It provides just the cover Ellaria needs. 

She ducks down another alley, seemingly empty, until the astromech droid makes its presence known, moving out of the shadow it’s been hiding in. The little droid is banged up, dirty and dented, and one of its legs is larger than the other. The yellow paint that rings its head is faded and scratched, and its body bears several scorch marks that Ellaria hasn’t yet been able to get rid of. It probably needs new plating, but that isn’t high on Ellaria’s list. She kind of likes its battered appearance anyway. It gives the little droid character.

It emits a series of beeps followed by a longer note.

“Yeah, thanks for the head’s up, C6. Perfect timing.”

The droid chatters excitedly.

“Yeah, I got it.” 

Ellaria pulls the bundle out of her pocket and shows it to the little droid. It’s still wrapped in cloth. It doesn’t look like anything special, just another lump of trash. Ellaria learned long ago not to ask questions, so she stuffs the object back into her coat pocket. 

“Let’s get out of here, buddy.” She pats the droid on the head with affection. “We’ve got a delivery to make.”

The man now known as The Seer sits meditating in a sparse room. He’s taken a position on a faded, red rug in the center of the room. The walls are bare. A shabby viewscreen sits in one corner of the room, collecting dust. The Seer has his eyes closed and floats a few inches from the floor. His left hand rests upon his left knee. His right hand ends in a cleanly severed stump. His eyes dart back and forth beneath the lids as images flash before him. Familiar voices drift to him across the Force.

“He’s too dangerous to be left alive!”

“I AM the Senate!”

And the hideous, horrible laughter that he could never forget. His allies cut down around him. Pain, then darkness. 

The Seer falls to the floor, panting, sweat beading on his forehead. The pain of those moments have haunted him for years. He’s glad he was unconscious, barely alive, so missed the pain of what came after. He knows what happened, while he lay down here in the dark during a long, slow recovery. When he reaches out to the Force now, there is only darkness.

The front door slides open, and Ellaria strolls in, C6-M9 rolling along at her side. She pauses when she sees him splayed on the floor, breathing heavily. His tattered hood has fallen back to reveal the imperfectly healed scars across his face and bald head. 

“Bad time?” she asks.

“It’s fine.” He says, standing. “Do you have it?”

Ellaria pulls the artifact from her pocket and holds it out. The Seer leaps forward and snatches it from her grasp. He cradles it in his hand, reaching out with the Force. The object pulses with energy, but only to those who know the Force. 

“You’re welcome,” Ellaria says, petulant. 

The Seer turns and walks away, toward a door in the back of the room. He stops, doesn’t turn around. 

“You did well, Ellaria.” His voice rasps. The rasp is new. “Next time, there won’t be an Imperial patrol to save you.”

The Seer limps through the open door, into a dark room, smaller than the main room. Neon light trickles in through the slats over the windows, enough to see the outline of a bed. The walls are lined with Jedi artifacts. A weapons rack hangs over the bed, holding several lightsabers. Pieces of tapestry from the Jedi Temple hang in tatters, burnt. Robes hang in the closet, many of them bearing the marks of blaster fire. A holo projector sits in the center of the room, dormant. 

He walks to the wall opposite the door, and a panel slides open. The room glows in soft blue and red. On the top shelf of the secret compartment, a half dozen Jedi holocrons pulse with blue light. Beneath them, Sith holocrons glow red. He unwraps the artifact Ellaria gave him. Carefully, The Seer sets this new holocron next to the others, its blue glow lost among the others. The blue and red battle across his scarred face, before he shuts the door and plunges the room back into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The Darkstar Club is a large building, taking up an entire city block. A neon sign runs the length of the club, proclaiming the name in ever-changing colors. Flashing lights from inside leak out into the street, casting shadows on the crowd waiting to get in. Two bouncers guard the door. One is a trandoshan, dressed plainly, wearing a blaster on his belt. Down here, one can never be too careful. The other bouncer is a wookiee, his hair a blend of black and gray. He doesn’t wear any visible weapons or accessories, relying much more on his size to handle belligerent guests. A couple of drunks stumble away from the club. There are no windows, only the double doors at the front, frosted glass in their center so no one can see anything inside but the flashing lights. The air reverberates with the pulsing, electronic beat.

Ellaria approaches out of the shadows near the wookiee. Her hands are pressed into the pockets of her brown, leather jacket, her blaster holstered under her shoulder. She ignores the frowning faces and dirty looks as she strolls past the line and up to the wookiee. He howls as he spots her. 

Ellaria regards him with a smile. “Hey, Joth. How are ya?”

Joth pulls her into a hug. She sinks into his massive chest, enjoying the soft fur against her face. Ellaria’s never smelled trees, but she imagines they smell fresh, like this big wookiee. She allows some of the omnipresent tension to leave her. Joth howls again and Ellaria steps out of his embrace. 

“I know,” she says. “I promise I’ll come visit more often.”

The wookiee grunts.

“Listen,” Ellaria says. “I need a favor. Can I get inside?”

Joth growls, baring his teeth in what passes for a wookiee smile, and yanks the door open for her. He pats her head as she enters.

“Thanks, Joth.” She flashes him a smile.

Inside the club, the music is deafening. She’s never realized how much work those doors do, holding the sound inside. Aliens of all species mingle in every nook and private booth. The bar is in the center of the room, surrounded by a circular dancefloor, filled with gyrating bodies and swinging lekku. Four bartenders pour out endless lines of drinks, and scantily clad humans and twi’leks carry drinks on trays through the dancefloor to tables that both line the dancefloor and stretch onto the main level and upstairs. 

Ellaria peers over the railing from her position on the main floor, looking through the crowd around the bar. Security personnel wander through the crowd and stand near every exit, but she’s looking for two, specifically. They’re hard to miss, and she spots them standing near the bar, looking bored. 

Downstairs, the crowd is heavier, and it’s difficult to see around them. The man she’s looking for still stands above the rest, nearly seven feet tall and rippling with muscles. His sister is shorter, hidden by the crowd, but Ellaria knows she’ll be there. Where her brother goes, she follows. 

Ellaria touches his bare arm, bristling with coarse, black hair. She has to tilt her head back to see his face. She smiles as he looks down at her. His right eye is milky white, blind, a long scar stretching across it from his forehead to his cheek. He turns to see her out of his good eye, and his craggy face broadens into a smile. He lifts her up and squeezes her. She always laughs when he does this. Once, a little girl delighted in being lifted and spun through the air in strong, loving arms, but that girl had been left behind long ago. Only the memory of the sensation remains, awakened in fleeting moments of vulnerability.

The embrace lasts only a moment, before Ellaria’s feet are firmly on the floor. The woman beside her is shorter than Ellaria, but thicker by half. She must share a workout routine with her giant brother. Her dark hair is cut into a short mohawk and a pair of goggles rest upon her forehead. They hug, wrapped firmly in each other’s arms. 

A loud crash breaks through the music. Broken glass slides across the floor and comes to rest against Ellaria’s boot. The embrace is over in an instant. Tela whirls around, pulling the modified blaster rifle from her back. A quarren stands with his blaster drawn, tentacles quivering. A mon calamari has his hands up, backing away from the drawn blaster. The other patrons back up as far as they can before being blocked by the crowd. 

Tela presses a button on her rifle. One barrel retracts, while a larger barrel clicks into place. The second barrel is barely in place before Tela fires. A net launches from the rifle, engulfing the quarren and dragging him to the ground. Telus strides forward and hefts the struggling quarren as if he’s no more than a bag of trash. Tela picks up the quarren’s gun and Ellaria follows them to the back door of the club. 

Telus cuts the net and tosses the quarren out into the alley. He lands with a thud on his back and hurls gurgled curses at Telus.

“Anyone know what he’s saying?” Telus asks.

Tela shrugs. “I don’t speak squidface.”

Telus gives the quarren a firm kick. “Get out of here. If I see you back here again, I won’t be so nice.”

The quarren walks out of the alley, nursing his arm, gurgling what are probably curses. When he’s gone, Telus turns to Ellaria with a smile.

“So, you’re glorified janitors now?” Ellaria asks.

“Basically.” Tela sighs. “Take what you can get when every crime lord from here to Tatooine hates you.”

“Well, I have good news!” Ellaria grins. “I figured out our next job.”

“Are we getting paid this time?” Telus asks.

“No. . .”

Telus and Tela share a look, then shrug. 

“Whatever gets me out of here,” Telus says. “We’re in.”

Ellaria sits atop a dark rooftop in a run down part of the city, Telus and Tela beside her. Here, they’re far from the lights and noise. This area has been mostly abandoned for longer than Ellaria’s been alive. The buildings are beginning to fall apart. Fungus grows along the walls. The street is narrow and full of holes, and the buildings crowd close together, overhanging the street. It’s empty, save for a police convoy moving down the center of the street. A dozen Coruscant police escort hovering crates, their blasters drawn.

“Twelve against three…” Telus says.

“Four,” Ellaria says. “We have C6.”

“Right. Perfect.” Telus wrinkles his nose.

“Are you getting soft?”

Telus chuckles. “You promised we’d be smashing Imperial heads. I just thought there’d be more.”

Ellaria grasps his enormous shoulder, smirking. “Stick with me, kid.” 

She speaks into her wrist com. “C6! You ready?”

The droid beeps his readiness.

Ellaria glances at the others. “Good?”

Telus peers down at the police. Tela gives a silent thumbs up.

“Hit it!” Ellaria says.

A hovercar crashes down in front of the convoy. It crumples and catches fire. The convoy halts. The nearest police officers take a step back, but two others move forward to investigate. As they approach, the door falls open and C6 rolls out. He emits a long, high-pitched note that sounds almost like a scream.

“It’s a droid!” 

One of the officers raises his blaster and aims it at C6, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where’s your owner, droid?”

“Right here!” Ellaria shouts.

Ellaria, Telus and Tela slide toward the police on zip lines. Telus wears a look of grim determination. Tela’s face is neutral. Ellaria’s grinning, eyes sparkling. The fire from the burning car casts their faces half in shadow. They’re already too close for the police to mount a proper reaction.

Ellaria’s boot connects with the closest officer, knocking him to the ground. C6 shocks another officer. He falls to the ground, his muscles twitching. The three humans land on the ground in a hail of quickly aimed blaster fire. Tela catches one of the officers in a net even as she’s hitting the ground. Ellaria runs for cover behind one of the large, hovering crates. Telus roars and charges the police, firing his blaster rifle. Two officers go down to his well-placed shots. Tela collects two more with stun bolts. Ellaria shoots one in the head. Telus engages in melee with one officer, knocking the blaster from his hands. The cop throws two punches to Telus’ chest. The big man doesn’t move. He smiles down at his opponent and smashes him in the face with the butt of his rifle, then flings his limp body into another officer. The two cops that remain upright turn to flee, but Tela hurls a concussion grenade their way. The explosion flings them through the air and they land, unconscious. 

“Too easy,” Telus says. He’s not even breathing hard.

“We’re just that good.” Ellaria brushes dirt from her shoulder. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Tela gathers up the weapons while C6 unlocks the crates and Telus pushes the heavy lids free.

“Food?” Telus says, peering into a crate.

Ellaria joins him and peers inside. “Perfect.”

Telus moves to the second container and pulls out a blaster. “There are enough here to equip every officer on Coruscant.”

“These weren’t going to cops, Telus.” Ellaria peers inside the second crate. Blasters fill the crate from top to bottom. “They were giving them to someone else. Payment.”

“Payment for what?”

Ellaria doesn’t answer. She moves to the third crate. It’s filled with precious metal, formed into bricks and stacked neatly into rows. 

“Now this is what we came for!” Telus exclaims. He takes a brick and knocks it hard against the side of the container. It resonates with a satisfying ring. “Let’s get this crate out of here before more of them show up.”

“We’re taking all three,” Ellaria says. 

“What? Why?”

Ellaria gives him a sharp look. “I have a place. Just. . .grab a crate and follow me.”

Telus hesitates, eyeing her dubiously. 

“Don’t worry.” Ellaria moves to the crate of food. “You’ll get your share.”

Tela throws the guns taken from the police into the crate with the others. With a grumble, Telus throws the lid back on the crate of metal bars, and the three of them guide the crates off into the darkness, C6 rolling along beside them.


	3. Chapter 3

Ellaria leads her team far from the city center. So far, the sounds of the city are a distant memory. A hulk rises from the darkness, towering over the surrounding buildings, a city unto itself. Parts of it have fallen apart over the centuries, marked by tangles of jagged durasteel and duracrete. 

“What is this?” Telus asks.

Ellaria smiles. “Home.”

The entrance is blocked by massive steel doors, looming above them. C6 connects to the console beside the door, and the doors rumble open. Ellaria has ceased tensing when faced with the dark, open maw of the place, but she senses the unease of the others, and smiles. 

“You’ll get used to it,” she says. 

There’s no respite from the dark inside, but ahead of them, a faint light glows and flickers. Rubble and machine parts are strewn across the floor. Old, rusted vehicles line the walls, abandoned for centuries. Ellaria can’t even name them. They haven’t been seen on Coruscant since before she was born, even down here in the dregs. 

They pass the bulk of the debris, into an area that has been carefully cleared. Lights are strung from catwalks and stairwells here, and several stand upright around the center of the room. A dozen people sit here, huddled around a heater. A few of them are wrapped in blankets; others eat slop from bowls. Ellaria leaves her crate outside the gathering and walks into the light. Heads turn toward her. It’s a struggle to remain upbeat when they look at her with hollow, defeated eyes and sunken, starved cheeks. 

“I brought supplies,” she says. “Fresh. Straight from the Imperials.”

A twi’lek woman stands and approaches. Her skin is yellow, eyes blue, and she hides behind loose fitting black clothing. Her lekku hang free behind her, and she moves with the grace of a dancer, belying her modest appearance. 

“I’m more concerned with the strangers you brought,” she says. 

Ellaria glances at the brother-sister duo, standing awkwardly beside the stolen crates. “They’re fine, Ay. They helped me raid that convoy.”

“I don’t like it,” the twi’lek says. “You should have told us.”

Ellaria reaches out, runs her hand down the twi’lek’s arm. “Ayala. . .I promise. They’re with us. They’re going to be around a lot more.”

“What?” Ayala says.

“They’re going to protect you when I can’t.” 

Ayala frowns. “We’re a small group. We don’t need guards.”

Ellaria smiles and runs her hand along Ayala’s cheek. “You do. But, I brought weapons, and Telus and Tela can teach you all how to use them.”

Ayala softens as she gazes into Ellaria’s eyes. She presses her cheek into Ellaria’s caress, her eyes closing for just a moment. When she opens them again, a smile creeps onto her face. Ellaria can barely stand it anymore; Ayala’s eyes are big, blue, the deepest blue, the quintessence of blue, and they’re staring at her. Ellaria. 

“Who’s going to attack us?” Ayala asks. 

“I don’t know, Ay. But if something happened to you. . .”

It’s too much. Ellaria pulls Ayala into a tight embrace. Eyes closed, they kiss. The crowd of refugees cease to exist. Telus and Tela cease to exist. Nothing matters but Ayala’s soft lips on hers, on Ayala’s body pressed against her. Feeling overflows from Ellaria. She could never hug Ayala hard or long enough to be satisfied. She’s giddy, light-headed. It is at once maddening and the best feeling in the world. 

All too soon, the kiss breaks and Ayala lays her head on Ellaria’s shoulder. Behind her, Telus and Tela hide their smiles and return to helping the refugees unload the crates. 

“Stay here tonight,” Ayala purrs.

Ellaria sighs, content. “I will.”

Ellaria wakes in the dark of the room she shares with Ayala. They’ve taken the old foreman’s office on the tenth story, overlooking the whole production floor. The office is bigger than any apartment Ellaria’s ever had. It might even rival some of the apartments on the surface, Ellaria guesses. 

She props herself up on one elbow. Ayala lays undisturbed beneath the blankets next to her. Ellaria slides from beneath the blankets. In just a black tank top and underwear, it’s chilly in the room, especially after the warmth of the mattress and her girlfriend. She grabs a spare blanket and wraps it around her shoulders. She looks out the large set of windows that comprise one wall of the room. Beneath her, way down in the dark, a heater burns red. The only other light comes from the neon lights of the city, faint through holes in the ceiling and dirty windows. 

It isn’t much, she thinks. But it’s home.

She turns and gazes down at Ayala, resting peacefully. They were all slaves, or close to it. In debt to one crime lord or another, for one reason or another. Live down here long enough, you’ll get to know all the crime lords well. Republic. Empire. Down here it’s all the same. The crime lords rule down here, always have. 

Ellaria heads out the door, stepping lightly on the catwalk. She’s come to know this place well. Even in the dark, the catwalks don’t scare her. The flashing lights of hover cars catch her attention as she passes a window. She stops to watch for a moment. The old factory is so dark, quiet, peaceful, sometimes it’s hard to remember there’s a whole city out there that never sleeps. Night and day are whenever you want it to be. The sun never shines here.

She finds herself peering down at the refugees sleeping around the fire, barely visible. A soft hand touches her back and an arm wraps around her waist. Ayala stands next to her, also draped in a blanket. Ayala smiles at her. Ellaria’s smile is pensive. 

“I saved them,” Ellaria says. “I saved you. Gave you a home.”

Ayala leans her head on Ellaria’s shoulder. “Someone had to. Someone had to do what the Republic and the Empire never would.” 

Ellaria sighs. 

“Down here, it’s always been three choices,” Ayala says. “Lie, cheat and steal to get what we need. End up some Hutt slave, dancing—” Ayala takes a deep, quivering breath. “Or you die.”

“Some choices,” Ellaria says, her voice laced with bitterness.

“We can build something here.” Ayala steps up to the railing, leaning against it with Ellaria. “A community. We can be safe here, together. We can make—”

“A home.” 

Ayala smiles, bittersweet. “I’ve never had a home.”

Ellaria turns, embraces Ayala, kisses her forehead. “You do now.”

“As long as you’re here.”

“I’ll always be here.”

They kiss, gentle and fleeting. 

“Not even the Empire can take me away from you,” Ellaria says. 

Hand in hand, sharing blankets, they return to their room and the warmth of their shared bed. Their home.


	4. Chapter 4

Liutenant Jalen Vorenik stares across his desk at one of his officers. The man had returned with less than a handful of his compatriots from what should have been a simple delivery job. Now, he sits across from Vorenik, visibly rattled. His armor is scuffed and dried blood still streaks his forehead just below his hairline. The man is ragged but little the worse for wear. He wouldn’t be patrolling this far down beneath the city if he wasn’t tougher than the average officer. 

“You mean to tell me,” Vorenik hisses, “that three people bested a dozen men and stole the entire shipment?”

The officer looks bashful. “And a droid, sir.”

“What?”

“Three people and a --.”

Vorenik slams his hand down on his desk and leans forward. “Enough! Incompetent fool! Do you have any idea what you’ve cost us?” Vorenik takes a deep breath and sits back. “Go home, officer. Rest.”

The officer doesn’t hesitate, nearly jumps from his chair and runs through the door to Vorenik’s office. Vorenik sits alone, staring after the man, not really seeing. He, of course, puts the blame squarely on the officers whose job it was to escort the convoy to its destination, but those above him won’t see it that way. The failures of subordinates ultimately comes back on their supervisor. This time will be no different, though at the moment Lieutenant Vorenik can’t think of anything else he could have done. In hindsight, of course, there are endless possibilities, but with the knowledge he had at the time, what could he have done?

Anxious, he flees his office. He needs to get ahead of this. He strides briskly away from his office, down the hall, past dozens of officers and other high-ranking personnel. A detachment of stormtroopers wanders the halls, trying to, at once, intimidate the officers and aid them with violent offenders. Vorenik pays them no mind. 

He pauses outside an opaque, gray door. Beyond, is Captain Pola Turana’s office. Vorenik knocks. 

“Come in,” the Captain calls.

Vorenik checks his collar, straightens his blue dress uniform and pulls his shoulders back. With a deep breath, he enters, closing the door softly behind him. The Captain’s office is only slightly larger than his own, but much less cluttered with paperwork. He marvels at how much difference that makes. It feels like there’s room to move, to breathe. 

“Lieutenant.” Captain Turana sounds surprised to see him. “I haven’t heard from Barga yet.”

Captain Pola Turana is a thin woman, blonde hair cut short along the sides, with a long tuft on top. Even sitting, she’s tall, hunching over her too-short desk. She looks up at the Lieutenant with white-blue eyes, radiating intensity. 

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what I’m here about.” 

His chest tightens. The collar of his uniform feels suddenly constricting. Admitting failure is never easy, especially to superiors in the Imperial police, and especially when that failure could have such far-reaching consequences. Vorenik is quite confident of his position here, that this won’t be his last day on the force, but one can never be too sure these days. This is a different police force than the one he joined during the Clone Wars. 

“Well, have a seat, Lieutenant.” Turana’s voice has gained an edge. Not sharp enough to cut…yet.

Vorenik sits straight-backed across from the Captain. He resists the urge to take a deep breath.

“So.” Turana leans back in her chair, her hands steepled. “You were telling me about Barga.”

Vorenik clears his throat. “The convoy won’t be reaching Barga, ma’am. It was attacked. Criminals made off with our crates.”

Captain Turana’s eyes widen. “All of them?”

Vorenik forces himself to look at her, though his eyes want to look anywhere else. “Yes, ma’am. All of them.”

“Kark! How?”

“Well, ma’am, the officers who’ve returned say they were ambushed by three people and a, um, a droid. Most of my officers didn’t make it back.”

“Fragging hell, Vorenik. This is a kriffing disaster.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Vorenik waits. No need to say much more and get himself into even more trouble. 

“Not only did Barga not get his shipment, there are fragging thieves out there with a whole kriffing arsenal!” Turana sits back, taps her fingers on her desk. “This looks bad for everyone. When the Prefect finds out, he’s going to want someone to blame.” She eyes Vorenik sharply. 

Vorenik swallows. The blame will be his. Captain Turana is too well connected and respected to take the blame. As they say, bantha dung rolls downhill. 

“You need to fix this, Lieutenant.” Turana fixes him with an icy stare. “Fix this, or the Prefect will come down on you like an angry gundark.”

He thinks to protest. What is he supposed to do? He has no leads. He’s more likely to get a Tusken Riader to swim than to get a word from any of the rabble down here. He’s karked. How long until one of those guns is used in a murder? If they organize, the scum have enough blasters to storm the Imperial police barracks. He keeps his protestations to himself. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You had better,” Turana says. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Lieutenant.”

A quick salute and he’s gone. He stops for nothing on the way to his office. He slams the door when he arrives and increases the window opacity. He releases his tension with a few deep breaths. He’s never been the type to sit and brood, to wallow in helplessness. He’s gotten this far because he’s a doer, because nothing is impossible. 

Vorenik grabs his datapad, already formulating a plan. Doubtless, it would require revision before he implements it, but he can already see a way out of this mess. A smirk creeps across his lips as he works. He won’t be underestimated again. 

The Seer sits cross-legged, floating a few inches from the floor. His eyes are closed, twitching beneath the lids. His face is tensed in concentration. Sweat beads on his forehead, drips slowly down his face. His breaths are heavy, almost gasping. The Force is no longer the calm bastion it once was. Now, it is chaos, confusion, sadness. Death. 

When once he would seek the Force and find the warmth of his brothers and sisters, now it is…empty. So many familiar presences, vanished. The once great wisdom and insight of the Jedi is gone. The Dark Side rules now. His vision is clouded. He feels only a handful of Jedi in the Force. Could that be all that remain? Or have some cloaked themselves in other ways, as he has? Most disconcerting of all, is the absence of Master Yoda. If the wisest among them is dead, what hope does the galaxy have? What hope does he have?

It isn’t the first time he’s wondered why he keeps fighting, why he dwells down here in the dark, hiding from the Empire. They are too few to fight back, to make a difference. Most of the Order is dead. What few remain are in hiding. They won’t do anything to risk discovery. They will cut themselves off from the Force, or pretend to be normal citizens. But, he is here, in the heart of the Empire, doing…what?

What is he doing? Collecting fragments of the Order like a museum? Perhaps he should let it go, leave the Jedi in the dustbin of history. It was their failure that brought the Sith to power, that killed so many people he called…friends. So, he’s been asking himself, even while he was in a coma, recovering, is the Order worth preserving? Fighting for? Surely, such profound failure as theirs could never be rectified. And yet. . .

Something inside him pulls him to the Force, wills him to remain connected. The lure of the Dark Side is closer than ever, but he always remained closer to the edge than any of his peers. He can resist. He always has. Only now the anger is stronger than ever. It longs to escape, to be unleashed, and he desperately wants to give in, to destroy the Empire. For now, he resists. Once, he was a Master, and his emotions had been his to control and use as he needed. He would not become undisciplined, even now. He has a reputation to uphold. 

It is not the Jedi way. 

The Seer sneers, alone in his home. Anakin Skywalker. He’d been right about that, for all the good it had done. He’d never trusted Anakin, and here he is now; vindicated! The Jedi way. What did Skywalker know of the Jedi way? The Jedi had existed for a thousand generations and that fool had destroyed it with one stroke of a lightsaber. The Seer had seen it coming. Master Yoda had been too trusting. Skywalker should never have been trained, Qui-Gon Jinn be damned. Even now, he doesn’t understand why Yoda allowed it. Out of some foolish affection for Qui-Gon? 

It doesn’t matter. It’s done. It only remains now to pick up the pieces, which is what he’s been doing. He can’t let the Sith corrupt everything the Jedi were. So, for now, he collects. Preserves. Until, one day, perhaps he will emerge into the light again, and face the Sith. The thought sustains him. The anger sustains him, and, one day, it will strengthen him enough to avenge his brothers and sisters of the Order.

A sinister grin spreads across his face. 

On that day, the Sith will know fear.


End file.
